


Euthanasia

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Euthanasia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:30:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He isn't going to pretend for a second that he became a doctor to save lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Euthanasia

**Author's Note:**

> Euthanasia.  
> N.   
> The painless killing of a patient suffering from an incurable and painful disease or in an irreversible coma.

He rolls the dice and they land on nine. Smirking to himself he rolls just one and it lands on three.

Ward nine, bed three.

He gets up from where he sits alone in the staff room. The other interns are doing their job, doing their rounds, or tagging along to surgery. The same old shit. He didn’t spend his entire life in school just to change bedpans and mop up vomit. He came here to deal with life and death.

So that’s what he is going to fucking do.

His footsteps are silent as he enters the ward, the curtains drawn around every bed as the patients sleep peacefully. He slides behind the curtain surrounding bed three and looks down on the man there. He chart says his name is Shinoda, Michael, and he has a benign tumour in his brain which is to be removed.

Poor thing. Benign tumours often give way to malignant tumours. Shinoda, Michael should just be put out of his misery.

He pulls a syringe from his pocket. He had to steal a set of keys to get the damn thing. Rumours are somebody has been stealing supplies. Probably to feed a drug habit. So now all interns have to be supervised when getting hypodermic syringes.

Which is bullshit.

He pulls back the plunger until air fills the inside of the syringe.

He turns over Shinoda, Michael’s wrist.

And plunges the syringe into the artery.

Arterial gas embolisms have the same symptoms of a heart attack or a stroke.

But he is gone before anything happens, pulling the curtain back round.

He caps the syringe and puts it back in his pocket with the dice. And he’s halfway to the door before he feels eyes on him. Bed five, the curtain is drawn back and the patient in the bed is smirking at him.

“Come here.” He says. “What’s your name?”

“Delson.” The board on the bottom of the patient’s bed says Bennington, Chester.

And he has an inoperable, malignant tumour in his brain.

“I’m dying anyway.” He says to Delson who puts the chart back and stares at him blankly. “So killing me would only be doing be a favour.”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

Bennington, Chester shakes his head. “I won’t.” He says, and smiles.

***

Bennington, Chester ends up with a private room and, when he can, Delson visits him.

“I want to go home.” Chester says, staring out the window. “Die here. Or die in front of a wide screen LCD. Smoking a joint.”

“I don’t know why people think we can save them. Some people, they come here because they’re unhappy. There’s nothing wrong with them it’s just no plastic surgery hospital in the world will turn their dick inside out for them so they come here. In the end they aren’t any better off – they just have a vagina and a massive medical bill.”

“What’s your first name?” Chester asks him.

“Brad.”

“Would you kill them, Brad. The people who come here unhappy?”

“Yes.”

“Would you kill me?”

Brad’s beeper goes off.

“Well? Would you?”

“You told me not to. And besides,” he says as he checks his beeper, “your number hasn’t come up yet.” He digs the dice from his pocket and throws them down on Chester’s bed.

Snake eyes. And what Brad doesn’t say is that ward two is paediatrics.

He leaves, answering his beeper as he closes the door.

Chester stares at the dice at the foot of the bed, and counts to ten.

***

“Who was it?” He says.

“Nobody you know.”

“Ha ha.”

Chester always asks, always has to know the ins and outs. Brad rarely tells him – the less he knows the less likely he is to turn Brad in. Besides, the kid he killed was just in hospital because she fainted at school. That kind of shit upsets some people.

“Hey. Do you think I could get some painkillers?” He asks. “Fucking headache.”

Brad nods. “Yeah. I’ll get your doctor.”

When he returns Chester has his eyes closed tightly and his teeth clenched. One hand clutches his head, the other lies on the bed lifeless.

“Chester?”

“Migraine.” He says, falters and stares down at his arm. “I can’t…my arm won’t…”

Brad, he gets shoved outside as other doctors step into the room. After all, he’s just an intern. And this isn’t his patient.

Not as if it’s the first time Brad has witnessed Chester’s symptoms. But being kicked out leaves him angry, and he grabs the dice from his pocket. And picks another victim.

***

Chester can’t see.

“Papilledema?” He says, uncertain. “I don’t know what it means. It’s the tumour, though, pressing against my optic nerve I guess? They said there’s things they could do. There’s operations. But…what’s the point?” He laughs and it’s hollow and leaves Brad feeling cold. “My son…he’s six. And it’s his birthday soon. And I’ll never see his face again. Or you.”

Brad bristles. “You should want to see your wife.”

“She doesn’t want to see me, Brad. Why would I want to see her?”

“I’ve met her. Once. She was crying.”

“She left when she found out I was sick. People like that…they’re just…”

“Yeah,” Brad says. “Yeah I know.”

***

His registered address is different to his next of kin’s. Bennington, Samantha lives in Orange County, far enough away from her husband no feel better, probably.

Brad rolls the dice.

He steals insulin and a syringe.

And hails a cab.

***

Chester can’t stop crying, tears rolling down his cheeks from his blind eyes. “I didn’t think she’d keep Draven away.” He sobs, heartbroken. “She said he’d visit today. She promised…”

“Ssh,” Brad whispers soothingly. “He won’t be coming today. Samantha got a little tied up.” He reaches out and strokes Chester’s hair softly, reassuringly.

But Chester pulls away, stares in Brad’s direction. “What do you mean?” He asks, accusingly. “What did you do?”

“Ssh! It’s okay. Draven is fine. He’ll come and see you tomorrow.”

“Brad…no…you can’t have…what the fuck did you do?!”

His voice is raised, panicky, and the door is open.

Sometimes, as a doctor, you have to make a decision.

And now it’s – let Chester scream and scream until the police arrest Brad.

Or lock the door.

Roll the dice.


End file.
